Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely
“Sentio omnia quae me circumdentur.” The words trilled over my tongue, and as I threw my magic wide, casting it in all directions, I slowed to a stop at the fork in the tunnels. My magic spread and spread until finally sinking into place like a net sinking to the bottom of a pond.
“Well?” Oliver asked. “Do you sense anyone?”
“No.” Other than Oliver behind me, I sensed nothing—though I tried to sense more. Tried to push the web just a bit farther, to feel for Daniel and Joseph . . . but they were too far away, or . . .
No, they are alive, and I will find them.
With a final glance at Oliver, I set off down the other passage. How long we went or how far, I could not say. Though the winding limestone tunnel was the same as all the others, this journey wasn’t like the earlier one. I had my magic now, so I felt no irritation—only determination. And worry.
Always, always I had to battle thoughts of Daniel and Joseph getting closer to death with every second that passed—if they weren’t already . . . dead. . . .
And always I had to focus my web of awareness. More than once I found my thoughts wandering, for I could not help but wonder where we were beneath Paris. We had walked so far. What part of the city was above us now?
Eventually Oliver pulled me to a stop. “The path ends ahead.”
“What?” I choked. “What do you mean ‘ends’?”
“There’s a wall.” He motioned ahead, beyond the range of the lantern’s light. “A dead end.”
I scurried ahead, frustration exploding in my chest—only to grind quickly to a halt. There was a wall. But it was cracked, like the wall by the reservoir had been.
“I can squeeze through that.” I darted forward, but Oliver latched on to my arm.
“Don’t be ridiculous! It probably leads nowhere.”
I yanked free and surged toward the wall again. “Just let me check. Please.” Yet I only made it two steps when a black, putrid wave slammed into my senses.
I cried out, dropping to my knees. The stench of grave dirt invaded my nose.
“El, what is it?”
But I couldn’t answer. My stomach heaved, and bile boiled up my throat. I vomited into the black.
Acid splattered my hands.
“El, what’s wrong?”
“D-death,” I stuttered before gagging again. “Wrong.”
“Draw in the web.” His voice was barely a whisper, yet the urgency was clear. “Hurry, you’ll feel better.”
I did as he said, frantically reeling my awareness back to myself. Instantly the nausea and the smell vanished.
Clutching my arms to my stomach, I sank back until I hit the tunnel wall.
“Are you all right?’ Oliver murmured, his hand patting my arm until his fingers found mine. He squeezed. “El?”
“No, I am not all right.” My voice trembled, burning my acid-raw throat. “It was . . . it was so, so rotten. Death everywhere.”
“It’s the demon.” Oliver’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Can you sense it?”
“Not yet,” he admitted, squeezing my hand again. “But I’m sure I will soon. Your web of magic extends your range of awareness much farther than my own. Tell me: which way was it?”
I pointed behind me, toward the crack in the wall. “Just beyond there.”
Oliver’s eyebrows shot down. “Did you sense Joseph? Or Daniel?”
“I-I did not try.”
“What about the Dead?” he pressed. “Did you feel any corpses?”
“I did not try, Ollie. The black and the grave dirt, they overpowered everything.”
He took my other hand in his. “You have to try, El. If this demon is just through that hole, we need to be prepared. We need to know if it’s alone.”
I gulped and nodded. Tentatively, I sucked in my magic, but rather than fling out my awareness, I let it creep through the crack . . . then onward and up . . . until the rotten sense of wrong rolled over me. I screwed my eyes shut, forcing myself to keep fumbling, keep feeling. . . . Then I sensed two flames amid the black: Daniel and Joseph.
I yanked in the web, popping my eyes wide. “They’re there,” I breathed. “Daniel, Joseph. And I couldn’t feel any Dead.” My breath shot out, thick with relief. “Oh thank God, they’re there. Alive . . . alive.”
“And how far ahead is the demon?”
“No . . . no more than a hundred yards.”
“And you are sure you want to keep going?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go. Quietly.” His hand gripped my elbow, and without another word, he helped me cram myself into the slanted crack. I had to shove and wiggle until the rock tore my clothes and slashed my skin, but I was numb from the cold and the magic. I felt no pain. After several feet of this clambering, I finally wedged through—and into a pitch-black, yet open, tunnel.
Oliver eased out behind me—but without the lantern. “I couldn’t carry it and still fit through. I’m sorry.”
“Can you see?” I whispered.
“Well enough. I will go first.” Then he clasped my hand in his and pulled me into a careful tiptoe.
Our pace was barely above a crawl, and everything seemed loud. Each of our steps, our breaths, our fingertips brushing on the cave walls. And everywhere that my straining eyes landed seemed to move.
Every spot in my vision sent my pulse racing.
Suddenly Oliver’s hand clenched mine in warning. I froze, holding my breath trapped. Ever so slowly, Oliver pulled me to him, and then I felt his lips at my ear. “It’s ahead. Joseph—he’s shouting.
Can you hear?”
I shook my head once.
“We’ll keep going, but be prepared to fight. Have . . . have your commands for me ready.”
“What will I command you to do?”
He gave an almost inaudible laugh. “Just tell me to destroy it.” He drew away from me, and together we crept forward, the tunnel curving right . . . then left. After twenty measured steps, the faintest sounds finally began to slide into my ears. Forty steps and we rounded another bend—and now
Joseph’s bellows sounded clear. Seconds later we veered sharply left . . . and halted. Light, painful even in its orange dimness, shone ahead. I squinted, trying to see what was in the light, but we were still too far away.
Then a scream—a sickening shriek of pain—tore through the tunnel. But I couldn’t tell if it was
Daniel’s or Joseph’s. All I knew was that we were out of time.
I pushed Oliver to go faster. The screams masked our footsteps until the shrieking ceased. We instantly stopped . . . waiting, not breathing. A new sound broke out: a tinkling, happy sound. Someone laughing.
I glanced at Oliver, and at his nod I slunk forward. He slid along behind me, both of us hugging the walls and craning our necks.
But once I could see, I instantly wished for the darkness again. Because knowing what was in there —seeing the horror—was so, so much worse.
It was a cavern, tall, round, and as large as the ballroom, yet lit by torches that cast the scene in an orange, shadowy light.
And there, hunched over a stone table in the center of the cavern with long, jagged claws extended and her dainty mouth lapping up blood, was none other than Madame Marineaux.
And the blood was Joseph’s. It poured from the side of his head, from a gushing, jagged hole where his ear had once been.
Chapter Twenty-three
Madame Marineaux still wore her black ball gown, her coiled hair as perfect as ever. . . . Even her face—her smile—seemed as sweet as it always did. But her fingernails—they were as sharp and long as knives. And her mouth . . . fresh blood dribbled down her chin.
It took all of my self-control not to run straight to Joseph or completely the other way. She was a friend. I had trusted her, and yet . . . something twisted in my gut. Something that said, You knew this all along. You simply did not want to see it.
But I would deal with that guilt, that hurt, later. For now I had a demon to face.
I dragged my eyes away from the Madame, searching for some sign of Daniel. It wasn’t hard—he was loud despite being bound and gagged against the left-most wall. He rolled and writhed beside a narrow tunnel descending into darkness. Yet his struggles did no good; he was too tightly fettered.
Tossed on the dirt nearby was his bandolier, the crystal clamp shimmering beside it.
I flicked my gaze the other way, forcing myself not to look at Joseph’s shuddering chest or
Madame Marineaux’s bloody face. Forcing myself to evaluate the enormous cavern.
There was a third tunnel on the far right. Torchlight flickered into it, showing a rising floor—a well-worn, rising floor.
“Y-you,” Joseph rasped, his voice weak yet penetrating every crevice in the room, “c-can kill me, but you will not go unpunished.”
Madame Marineaux laughed, almost gleefully, and rose to her full—albeit tiny—height. “You have no idea what you say, Joseph Boyer. Your blood is very strong. Very strong, indeed. And when my master learns whom I have killed. Oh, how pleased he will be.”
At the word “killed,” Daniel’s struggles grew more frenzied, and muffled shouts seeped through his gag.
Madame Marineaux clucked at him. “Monsieur Sheridan, I do wish you would stay quiet. Your turn will come soon enough.”
“Stop,” Joseph commanded hoarsely. “W-we know what you”—a shiver wracked him—“plan. You and the Marquis . . . cannot succeed.”
“The Marquis?” She chuckled and dragged a claw almost lovingly along Joseph’s jaw. “Is that who you think is behind this? Oh, you naive little Spirit-Hunter. The Marquis was merely a tool. A source of income . . . and power for my master. He had no idea what was happening around him—or to him.”
A hand landed on my shoulder, and I flinched. But it was only Oliver. His eyes told me plain enough what he could not say: We need a plan.
And as much as I did not want to go—as much as my body screamed at me to run into the chamber and do something—I had to think this through.
Madame Marineaux was a demon, and she was strong.
So I forced myself to look away, to turn around and leave. We did not stop until there was no more light and Madame Marineaux’s wicked crowing had faded to a distant whisper.
Oliver pulled me to him, breathing in my ear, “Joseph’s hurt badly, and that demon is . . .” He trailed off.
“It’s Madame Marineaux,” I whispered.
“No, El.” I heard him gulp. “Her claws . . . I think she’s a Rakshasi.”
“Rakshasi?” That name sounded familiar, though I couldn’t place why.
Oliver moved closer, pulling my body to his. “They’re the most deadly a-and,” he tripped over his words, “and powerful demons of all time. And they’re the only ones I know of with claws like that.
She has venom that works like a compulsion spell . . . venom that makes you see things that aren’t real.”
